


Desideratum

by Rev (Ballyhoo)



Category: Baccano!
Genre: (Forced Angst?), Angst, Blood, Can be read without having read 1935, Flashbacks, Gen, Huey and Salomé cameos, In Which Sickle Kicks Ass, Injury, Minimal Waxing Lyrical, Poet-Centric, Post 1935-E, Slight Suicide Ideation, This is definitely going to be invalidated by 1935-E I just know it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 06:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballyhoo/pseuds/Rev
Summary: The Poet lets his guard down while on a mission with Sickle.In the bloody aftermath, he and his existential crises reach an understanding.





	Desideratum

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic makes some _generous_ assumptions about Ladd post-1935-E. Including, but not limited to: that he's not in jail; that he's not _dead_ ; that he doesn't lose his other arm thanks to Felix; that he either retains or recovers his good humor in the aftermath of 1935-E; hell, that he's still around at all. 
> 
> I guess it also assumes minimal interaction between the Lamia and Ladd + Lua during 1935-E. Also that Shaft isn't outed to Ladd as a Sham vessel. Basically it assumes a lot of things and I can't wait for 1935-E to grind this fic to dust when it comes out.

They hadn’t designed the Poet for combat.

Master Salomé hadn’t fashioned him claws like he had Chi, hadn’t made him flexible like the Contortionist, hadn’t given him Sickle’s raw power back in Master Huey’s laboratory. Instead, he and the other researchers had bestowed upon him eyes that could bewitch any man or woman into doing his bidding.

Rhythm hadn’t given him Sickle’s power, but he was intimately familiar with it all the same.

A few yards away from him, Sickle snapped her foot out and crushed a man’s neck against brick wall. The Poet winced and rubbed his own throat – Sickle had imparted similar blows to him time and time again, and he could recall the suffocating pressure with an ease he didn’t particularly appreciate.

“On your right, Sickle,” he warned, and in a blur of golden hair and a swish of green cloth she jerked her elbow back and plowed it right into another man’s stomach. He let out a high-pitched whine and fell to his knees, retching onto his trousers.

The Poet edged to the mouth of the alleyway and peered around the corner, automatically tugging the brim of his hat downward in case any random passersby should look his way. To his relief, there _were_ no random passersby – at least, none that he could make out in the late night mist – and he withdrew back into the alley to pull one of the dazed men out of the line of fire and prop him up against one of the walls. The man scowled as the Poet crouched down to meet him face to face.

“Standin’ back while your woman does the dirty work…that’s pretty pathetic.” He reached into his mouth and pulled out a tooth. “What’s a pansy like you gonna do to me, huh?”

The Poet sighed. “Why did you men rob Rhythm’s truck convoy two hours ago?”

His audience laughed, and spat blood onto the tip of the Poet’s shoe. “As if I’d talk just like that.”

“…I suppose not. It seems I have no choice.” He used one finger to push the brim of his hat _upward_ this time, and the man’s gaze instinctively met his. Almost immediately the other man’s eyes glazed over, and guilt twisted in the Poet’s stomach. “Good. I have questions for you. You will answer them.”

“Hhh…Yes…I’ll answer them.”

“First question. What is your name? Your first will suffice.”

The man’s head lolled, settling on his left shoulder. “…Orville.”

“Good. Now, why did you and your friends rob Rhythm’s truck convoy two hours ago?”

Orville’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Orders…boss heard there…was good product…”

 _Boss? Whom?_ “Why did you bring the crates to this alleyway?”

“To…” Orville’s head lolled forward this time, and the Poet reached out to lift Orville’s chin up with his left hand. “Delivery...friends coming…truck…”

“When?”

“Any…minute…now…”

Klaxons went off in the Poet’s head. He didn’t bother to meddle with the man’s memories, surging to his feet and turning to look at the main road with trepidation crawling down his spine. It had been Sham who’d originally brought the theft to the Lamia’s attention an hour ago, and he’d reported that the men had transferred several crates to this very alleyway for one reason or another. Sickle and the Poet had been chosen to go retrieve the crates, with Sham promising to send one of his vessels in a car for pickup duty any…minute now.

He glanced over at Sickle as she delivered a brutal kick to a man’s groin. Only two of the men still standing seemed capable of putting up any semblance of a fight against her, and the Poet had no doubt that she could easily take them on. But if a truck was arriving like Orville had said – did that mean reinforcements? How many? Could Sickle take them all on? One of the thugs shouted something, but he barely registered the sound as he pondered what to do next.

The Poet hesitated, and moved back toward the alley entrance.

Sharp pain exploded in his right shin.

“Gah—!” He bit back the choked cry, afraid that he’d distract Sickle and earn her an injury in the interim. Something tugged on his trouser leg, and he looked down to see Orville _hoisting_ himself upward, adjusting his grip on a knife protruding from white cloth. He yanked the knife out of the Poet’s shin, and hot agony crackled across the Poet’s vision in the form of white starbursts.

“Kill…him…” muttered Orville, and he dragged himself onto his knees. The Poet stumbled backward, but Orville reached out and grabbed a fistful of his jacket. “… _Kill,_ ” Orville repeated, and he slashed his knife down at the Poet’s torso. The Poet staggered to his left, failing to avoid the knife entirely; it left a fairly deep gash in his right side in its wake. His bad leg couldn’t take the momentum, and he dropped to one knee.

_No!_

He couldn’t think about the pain – he couldn’t process the pain, and all he could think about was the chill of the stones underneath his leg seeping through his trousers and into his skin.

“ _Kill_ …”

He’d lost his hat. _He’d lost his hat._ Where was his hat _he needed his hat_. The Poet’s throat constricted, and he instinctively closed his eyes as Orville loomed over him, his knife’s blade gleaming under the light of a nearby street lamp. Something slammed into his left shoulder, and for a second the Poet thought he’d been punched…until the object _twisted_ , and it was all he could do to let out a strangled whimper at the undulating pain. He did not realize that he’d fallen onto his side until his cheek met rough inlaid rock.

And then – nothing.

❖

“…ome _on_ , Poet, wake up…”

_Oh, it hurts._

“Damn it…where’s Sham? He’s late. _Damn_ it.”

_Cold._

“Can you hear me? Move your fingers if you can.”

_Sickle?_

“I can’t believe I’m asking this, but _say_ something, would you? Anything.”

With a great effort, the Poet opened his eyes and immediately clapped his right hand over them upon spotting Sickle, the light from the streetlamp a halo behind her head. He turned his head to the side, keeping his hand clamped over his eyes all the while. “Hat,” he croaked. Tried to swallow spit. His shoulder _throbbed._ Dislodged rocks dug into his back, and he shifted a little to his left – only to hiss when the gash in his side flared up in protest. The stab wound in his shin ached in pulses.

Chilly fingers pressed into his arm. “You’re overreacting. You don’t have to cover your eyes, Poet.”

The Poet bit his lip and shook his head. Sickle sighed, and removed her fingers from his arm. A minute later, something lightweight was gently laid atop his head. He raised his right hand upward, took the hat, and drew it down over his eyes and nose. Thumbed its inner rim, made sure that it hovered over the bridge of his nose. Finally, he felt safe enough to open his eyes.

Deep green filled his vision. _Sickle_. Kneeling by his side.

“You look ridiculous with it angled like that,” she snorted, and the Poet relaxed minutely at the muted relief in her voice. He didn’t allow himself the luxury of dwelling upon it – there were more important things to worry about.

“When you were fighting,” he asked, urgency sharpening his consonants. “A man… _ngh_ , a man shouted something. What did he say?”

Sickle paused. “He said… _kill the nancy_ , I think.”

“Ah…I see.” Just as he’d thought. _Careless. So unbelievably careless._

Sickle stood, and her red tights moved out of the Poet’s limited range of sight. “Sickle…” he wheezed, pressing his hand to his side, “A truck…s’coming…”

“Yeah,” replied Sickle, close by his left ear. In the next moment she slipped her hand under his head and lifted it up ever so slightly, taking care not to jostle his hat. When she lowered it, he was surprised to find that she’d nestled his head upon something soft. “ _Sham’s_ truck. Guess your head took a harder blow than I thought.”

The Poet grimaced, distracted by his shoulder pulsing wet and hot under his jacket. If only he had another right hand with which to apply pressure on the wound. “Not Sham. _Them._ What’s…?”

“I took a coat off one of our attackers,” she said. _That explains the softness._ “I assumed these thugs were delivering the goods to somebody, but so soon? Just _great_. What the hell is keeping Sham?”

Sickle’s hair brushed the Poet’s ear, and he reached out – ignoring the burning of his shoulder – with his left hand and caught her dress, twisting the cloth with his fingers. “Reinforcements?” he rasped, no longer able to keep a trace of nervousness out of his tone.

“I’d deal with them,” she said flatly, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her rip the sleeve off of a black coat. She’d stated her claim so matter-of-factly that the Poet couldn’t help but be reassured. Of course Sickle could take them on. She could take on hordes of nameless lowlifes all day and probably still be raring to go by the dawn of the next one. As she continued ripping up the coat, she asked, “How are you feeling? You’re not going to pass out on me again, are you?”

 _Hurts_ , he could say. _Everything is cold and hot and I might be bleeding to death as we speak._ But he couldn’t say that to her face – not outright. He sucked in a breath. “O shadows!” he cried. “O torment! Slain, the guilt-cursed milksop, overwrought by the weeping Algea! Would Epione’s kiss bring solace! Charon awaits. Fie, fie and wail red-waxen wroth upo–upon…upon…” The Poet coughed. “Upon—”

“Knock it _off_ , Poet,” Sickle snarled, and she raised his left arm – _hrk!_ – and looped black cloth around his shoulder, knotting it to the wound as best she could. “Save your poetry for Christopher. And don’t give me that ‘I’m going to die’ _bull_. You’re going to be fine.”

The Poet quite frankly didn’t see how he was coming out of this alive. The flashy red of Sickle’s tights only half-caught his eye, and he paid little attention to her moving to his other side as his own mortality bared its fangs at him. _Ageless_ didn’t mean the same thing as _immortal_. All the Lamia knew it, and the Poet knew with terrible certainty that his own blood would not flow back into his wounds like Master Huey’s had time and time again. Three injuries _._ He’d heard that humans could survive an astonishing number of stab wounds, but then – _he_ wasn’t human. Neither he nor Sickle were familiar with the local area, didn’t know if any doctors were nearby to come to his rescue.

He was going to bleed to death in this very alleyway. Slowly and painfully.

Sickle lifted up his jacket and shirt, grunting as she slid fabric underneath his torso and up again – he gritted his teeth at the ensuing pain in his side. “Keep talking,” she said. “I refuse to believe that _you_ of all people are at a loss for words.”

The Poet fumbled for a thought, for a prayer, for any semblance of a sentence that wasn’t, _sorry, but I think I am going to die after all_. The thought didn’t come. “My…deepest apologies,” he mumbled. “I failed in the mission.”

“That’s moronic,” Sickle barked, and he could make out her shuffling on her knees down to his leg. Hardly a comfortable way to move, with only tights to protect her knees and legs from the stones. “ _I’m_ the soldier here, not you. Rhythm didn’t even give you the decency of an enhanced physique. It was my fault that you got injured. _I_ failed to protect you properly.”

 _Sickle…the soldier._ “Not your fault,” he said, flexing his right hand though he knew she was out of reach. “Mine. You were. Busy.” His throat ached for water. “I should have been…more careful.”

She lifted up his right leg, and wrapped cloth around it. He took a rattling breath. “One less…tool for…Master Huey to use…” he mused, and his lips curved upward. “Not a…very good one.” _Not a very happy one._

“Quit being so pessimistic,” came the answering growl, and he blinked blearily at the green dress that had appeared quite close to his face. _When had she moved?_ “I’m going to get you out of here.”

“Bad plan,” he managed, as she braced him with one hand on his right shoulder and another at the nape of his neck. “No, w- _grhk_!” Bright colors danced across the Poet’s vision as she hoisted his upper body up, and he immediately collapsed backward into her chest.

“Of course it hurts,” she muttered, adjusting her grip on the Poet’s shoulder and yanking his hat securely over his head. “Just—”

Sudden silences were not in any way approaching a _good_ occurrence at the moment, and Sickle’s worried him immensely. He raised his head, prepared to ask her what was wrong – and saw two approaching dark silhouettes in the distance, enshrouded by mist.

They came to a stop by the streetlamp, and the Poet’s eyes widened in recognition.

“Well, well, well,” crooned Ladd Russo, looping an arm around the shoulders of his female companion. “What do we have here?”

 _Ladd Russo_. He’d been present during the Central Park showdown in February – why, he’d been at the casino party too, and now he stood leering at his surroundings in an exquisitely tailored steel grey suit. The woman beside him – had she been in Central Park too? The Poet thought she had, but he wasn’t sure – didn’t matter. Her silver chiffon dress, combined with the pale mellow light of the streetlamp and the mist surrounding her – it all served to give her an ethereal quality, and it seemed as if she could melt into the fog at any moment. … _How unbearably lovely._

Sickle stiffened under him, but the Poet could only watch numbly as Ladd strode over to Orville’s prone body and kicked him onto his back, looming over him with a toothy smirk and a wolf whistle. “Wow, really did a number on him, huh? I’m impressed, I really am.”

He wandered out of the Poet’s line of vision, and when he meandered back into it a minute later the Poet hurriedly pulled his hat low over his eyes. “Hey, hey, wait a minute – I remember you, beardy. You’re that ‘God of Language’ fella from the park, ain’tcha?”

The Poet shivered – partly from blood loss, and partly from nerves. How should he respond to someone like Ladd? Bits and pieces of Ladd’s confrontation with Master Huey’s daughter came back to the Poet with terrifying clarity – the glint of his metal arm, his constant stream of chatter while he dodged every slash of her knives as if it were _nothing_. All crocodile smiles and molten lava.  

“C’mon c’mon, speak up wouldja? And don’t think I didn’t catch you covering your eyes with that hat, hey, it’s _rude_ to up and ignore someone who’s talking to ya, don’tcha know? Lemme see your eyes, it’s kinda hard to tell whether or not you’re afraid that you might die right here and now when I can’t see your eyes so be a pal and lift your hat up a little hey!”

The Poet stared at Ladd’s oxfords as they skipped down the pavement, and he shrunk back into Sickle’s grasp. “Unasked delectations,” he mumbled, dizzy, “Mankind commensurate with the aphotic, he at his crepuscular zenith… Ye interloper, be not unkind and rend him from his empyreal evanescence…”

“Ha! You’re Graham’s pet ‘God of Language’ all right! I gotta say, very very nice threads ya got there, O Lingo Lord. Wearing all that white really makes your blood _pop_.”

Sickle moved restlessly underneath the Poet, and he groaned at an answering spasm in his shoulder. Ladd’s feet came to a stop a few inches away from the Poet’s shoes.

“And whaddaya know – hey missy, aren’tcha that broad who decided to have at it with Graham back then? Sure you are. You a capoeira kitten, I take it?”

“In your dreams,” Sickle countered, frosty venom lacing her words. “What I do isn’t capoeira.”

“Why not? I know capoeira when I see it, and _that_ , sister, was capoeira. Sheesh, that’s one hell of a dirty look you got there, you gonna bite me or what?”

Really, all the Poet wanted to do at this point was to close his eyes and go to sleep. Light-headed as he was, he was finding it difficult to keep up with the conversation – but a part of him fretted that if he closed his eyes he might never wake up. Not an entirely unwelcome endpoint, and certainly not an…unfamiliar point of consideration.

Back in Master Huey’s laboratory, when the Poet had been in the throes of misery – he’d thought about it. And after he and the others were finally released into the outside world, when he realized that he still couldn’t obtain the happiness he thought he’d experience away from Huey’s laboratory – he thought about it _more._ Mostly in detached spurts of clinical consideration, never too fraught with _feeling_. There had simply been a certain temptation to the thought of sealing his own eyes away, on his own terms.

Yet the fretting remained. The _fear_ remained. He’d looked at Rail and Frank (so young, so vulnerable), at Chi and Sickle (so strong, so guarded), at Christopher (broken, broken) – at all his fellow Lamia (broken), and he knew he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t passively submit to death if it should encroach upon him – all the Lamia had in this world were each other, and the permanent loss of any one of them would surely weigh heavily on their souls.

When Christopher had disappeared for a year without warning – they’d all eventually thought the worse, and they’d tried not to think about the loss too hard. Think about losing one of their own too hard and they’d surely break irreparably.

So he summoned all his courage. Shook away the mind-fog, blinked away the constant, unceasing pain. Sickle’s grip tightened on his good shoulder, and he could guess at what she was asking him to do. _Use your powers on him, Poet. Before he kills us both._ That was a sobering thought – controlling the likes of _Ladd Russo_ , fearsome hitman of the underworld. There were people out there who would kill for such a power – or at the very least, kill to get their hands on the Poet himself and use him for their own ends.

Had the Poet been Rail, he might have preened at having such a power – a power that could make him the master of some of the most powerful men in the city, if not the country. But the knowledge that he could potentially control Ladd didn’t bequeath the Poet solace. Somewhere deep inside of him, he wasn’t entirely sure if he _could_.

 

Once, when the Poet was young and wild from fresh agonies, Master Salomé had escorted Master Huey around Rhythm’s laboratories to parade his latest achievements and minimize his setbacks. When they visited the Poet, he’d been strapped to a table with tight leather straps, wearing only a medical gown and utterly insensible with pain. Every blink was a new torture, every nerve lightning. His eyes watered, and watered, and watered.

While Master Huey studied the Poet’s updated file, the Poet had stared at him and fantasized about hypnotizing him. The revelation that he _could_ hypnotize people in the first place had been a recent one – _it’s your eyes,_ Master Salomé had crooned, _they’re special eyes_ – but he’d not said for how long they’d been ‘special.’ Perhaps the Poet’s eyes had been special since his creation. Perhaps they’d only been special for two weeks. Either answer was plausible, but what did the Poet care for the truth when his eyes were in pain _now_?

What did the answer matter in the end, as long as he knew that he could control people _now?_

So the Poet, finally aware of his own power, had fantasized. If he could control the minds of others like Master Salomé had said, then surely Master Huey was no exception. As he’d suffered, he’d fantasized, and as he’d fantasized Master Huey looked up from the file and at him and their eyes met and he _froze._

And he’d looked away.

The ensuing hideous pain had paled in contrast to the cold dread in his bones when he’d seen the _look_ in Master Huey’s eyes. His faint smile. The arch of his eyebrows. In that moment, the Poet had cowered in the face of existence he could not comprehend. A larger-than-life existence that had outstayed the Earth’s welcome and _persisted_ and simply _was_.

In that moment, he’d finally understood. Huey Laforet, his master. Huey Laforet, the _Creator_. The Poet existed only because Master Huey had willed it so. And the Poet had _dared_ to think he could control him.

With Huey, there could be no doubt. Even _dreaming_ about hypnotizing him was folly. It had to be.

 

In comparison to Master Huey’s existence, Ladd’s existence was _nothing_ – and yet, the Poet doubted. Something about the spark in his eyes, the strong set of his jaw, the blinding confidence in how he carried himself. Ladd’s existence was finite, yet he lived it as if it were unconquerable anyway.

Could the Poet really exert his own influence upon such a man?

He doubted. He dreaded. That old familiar feeling of guilt surged forth and overpowered both emotions. Sickle and Chi would have surely scoffed at the idea of experiencing guilt over the likes of Ladd Russo, but then neither of them knew what it was like to have a human’s mind at their total mercy.  

With all the bravery he could muster, he spoke:

“You don’t have to look into my eyes, sir, to know that I...that I do not wish to die tonight.”

“Huh, you seem to think that I should take your word for it. Ain’t that kind of arrogant, O Mouthy Maker o’ mine? Eh, but I could hear the tremor in your voice – good on you for not faking it, ‘cause I’d have been able to tell in a heartbeat. Your not-capoeira friend here doesn’t seem like she wants you to die either, so you’ve got that going for yourself. Normally I got problems with folks who take on Graham, but from the way he talks he seems to have taken a shine to you, doll.”

A shimmer of silver to Ladd’s left belied his companion, who’d come to join him by his side. Ladd crouched down so that he could better examine the Poet’s injuries, and his companion did the same – delicately holding her dress to keep it from scraping against the ground. Startled, the Poet realized that there was _envy_ on her face as she observed his shin wound.

“Now it ain’t as if I got an urge to kill you or anything, but it’s not in my business to _keep_ people from dying either, ya know? Lua and I could just up and walk away and leave you two here alone to figure things out on your own… But then, Graham’s awfully keen on you _too_ , beardy, and he’d be oh-so-very unhappy if he found out I left one of his beloved idols in a pool of their own blood so I guess today’s your lucky day, ain’t it.” 

“But Ladd…” Lua whispered, in a voice so ephemeral that the Poet had an urge to dedicate several odes to her visage. “There aren’t…”

Ladd frowned, rocking back on his haunches. “Oh, that’s right, no nearby doctor worth his salt is open at this time ‘a night, yeah? Well ain’t that just a bi – hold the phone, what about that Fred guy that Who works for? I bet he’d be willing to do a little favor for an old pal ‘a Who’s, right? ‘Cept we’d need an auto to get there. Pretty sure there’s one back down the road I could hotwire…whaddaya think, Lua?”

If Lua had a reply she didn’t have a chance to voice it – the sound of automobile motors rumbled off in the distance and demanded everyone’s immediate attention. Seconds later, a car and a truck hurtled down the street from its opposing ends, both skidding to a halt several yards away from each other – the car on the Poet’s left and the truck on his right. A young man sat in the driver’s seat of the car, and in the opposite truck were several men, who –

Who –

Who had _tommy guns_.

Who leant out of the truck’s windows with those tommy guns and opened fire on the young man. The man ducked down below the dashboard and out of sight.

“Hey! That’s Shaft the driver!” Ladd sprang to his feet, vibrating with energy. “Lua, dollface, you stay here with Graham’s pallies while I go bump gums with those chopper-carrying brunos for a few. By which I mean physically. With my fists.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets and ambled away. As he left the Poet’s line of sight, he said, “I dunno why Shaft’s here, but hey, now we got a car and chauffeur for the doc’s place. Dunno why the brunos are here either, but I’m guessing they’ve got something to do with those crates in the alley, right? Better take ‘em out before they kill Shaft, ‘cause Graham would probably go ballistic if _he_ died.”

A laugh. “I’ve been busting to cut loose all evening, man oh man oh _man_.”

  

After that…

 

…The Poet drifted.

 

Screams echoed from somewhere distant on his right – shattered screams that cut off like wires snapping, accompanied by smattered gunfire and tinkling glass. Aches lanced through the Poet’s side every time he so much as breathed, and the only way he could mitigate them was through focusing on _other_ hurts, like the searing pain in his shin and shoulder. Clarity ebbed and flowed with each pulse of anguish, and ebbed, and ebbed, and his chin dipped toward his chest.

Sickle lightly slapped his cheek.

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed, and she grabbed both sides of his head and forced it upwards. The world swayed with the movement – there was Lua, and next to her stood the young man from the car, dressed in a purple-hued outfit and clutching a cap in his right hand. He looked down at the Poet with dismay in his eyes.

“Are you…”

“Yeah,” said the man, giving the Poet a careful nod. Something in the Poet’s heart loosened. _Sham._ “The name’s Shaft. Didn’t I see you two at Central Park back in February?”

“Seems like all of Manhattan was at that damned park,” swore Sickle, under her breath.

Lua tilted her head up at Sham. “Hello, Shaft,” she said, softly, “Are you hurt?”

Sham gave her a sheepish smile, and self-consciously covered a bloody tear in the sleeve of his upper left arm with his cap. “Hello to you too, Miss Lua,” he replied – quite blasé despite the final, wrenching howl of misery that sounded off behind him. “Some grazes, but nothing serious. I guess I ducked down just in the nick of time, but honestly I have no idea how I’m not peppered with holes right now.”

The Poet furrowed his brow, and scanned Sham’s vessel for injuries. He was bleeding from a line on his neck, and from a few more grazes on his opposite arm and shoulder – not to mention a few cuts on his face, but they must have been from the glass of his windshield rather than bullets – he really had escaped mostly unscathed. _What luck._  

“Oi, Shaft!” called Ladd, who emerged into view moments later dragging the truck driver’s corpse behind him. He dumped it onto the curb and brushed blood upon its coat with the sole of his shoe. “What the hell are you doing out and about this time of night? Graham with you?”

“‘Fraid not, boss,” Sham said, shaking his head. “He’s out working his way up to a hangover at the Jane Doe. It’s just me.”

“He is? Hey, maybe I should swing by the Doe later on – unless, don’t tell me, is he drinking with that Smith asshole? Just thinking about that guy gets me all wound up. So what the hell _are_ you doing out and about anyway?” 

Sham hesitated, and his eyes flickered over to the alleyway, and then to a point above the Poet’s head – some silent communication with Sickle, probably. “Um,” Sham tried, “Well, a couple of hours ago I saw these men stealing some goods from a big truck a few blocks away, and I thought that since they were crazy enough to go up against a guarded convoy then the goods _had_ to be worth something, you know? So I figured I’d track the goods down and see if I couldn’t nab them for Graham and sell ‘em for profit.”

“Ohhhh, I see, I-see-I-see-I- _getcha_. Graham was complaining on money being tight and all last time I saw ‘im. Lookit you, taking the initiative like that.” Ladd rolled his shoulders back and cricked his neck. “So you’re saying that those crates back there could benefit Graham, huh? That’s what you’re saying? Then I guess I won’t mind helping load them into your auto – nah, no way they’d fit, let’s use the truck instead. In return for helping with the crates, could ya drop these two off at a little clinic I know? Beardy over there is in bad shape and Graham likes him so I can’t just leave him to die ‘n all.”

Sham nodded vigorously. “Of course not, boss – I’d be happy to give the couple a lift. Wouldn’t sit right with me if I just left ‘em like… _that_.”

“Great, great, glad t’hear it.” Ladd tossed the Poet a careless smile. “You gonna thank me or what? It’s not every day I’m this generous to a couple of rubes I barely know.”

“Hold on,” Sickle protested, “We haven’t agreed—”

One moment Ladd was at the curb, the next he was leaning over the Poet’s body so as to get all nice and personal with Sickle’s face. The Poet squeezed his eyes shut. 

“What was that? You haven’t _agreed_? You hear that Lua, she hasn’t agreed! For some reason I was under the impression that you didn’t want your friend here to bleed to death, but it turns out that all this time you weren’t on board and didn’t say a goddamn thing! How was I supposed to know you wanted to let beardy here die when you’re pulling a Chané on me, huh? ‘Cause that’s what you want, right!” he exclaimed, his breath hot over the Poet’s face. “You _want_ him to die like this right here in your arms, just the two of you surrounded by the bodies of your victims.” 

Several seconds of surly silence followed his accusation. Finally, Sickle growled, “You _know_ I don’t, _Russo_.”

The Poet tentatively opened his eyes to see Ladd withdrawing, straightening upward with a vaguely satisfied expression upon his face.

“Heh. Heh heh. If you say so, sister. Not like I’d have judged you if you really did want that – why, it’s a perfectly understandable ending to pine and pine after, isn’t that right, Lua?”

Lua blushed from where she knelt by the Poet’s leg, and folded her hands in her lap.

“Aw, did I excite you Lua? Did that excite you? You’d like that, me killing you just like you’ve always dreamed, wouldn’t you, angel?”

Lua nodded demurely, her blush deepening. Ladd offered her his hand, and she rose with hope shining in her eyes. “Of course the whole _world’s_ gotta be filled up with the corpses of everyone I’ve killed first – you’ll have to wait your turn, Lua, patiently, patiently, right up until I kill the third last living person on Earth. ‘Cause once I _do,”_ he sang, right into her ear, “I’ll spend the rest of my life killing you oh so tend-er-ly.” 

“Ladd…” Lua sighed, all gossamer and lace. 

Sham coughed. “Uh, ‘scuse me boss, but he really _is_ gonna die if we don’t get a move on.” 

Reluctantly, Ladd released Lua to acknowledge Shaft’s point. “Yeah, yeah, I hear ya. Okay, how about you and I go move the crates while our two ladies here assist our Deity of Dialogue over to the truck.”

“I don’t think so,” Sickle interjected. “No offense, but your driver doesn’t look like he’s got much in the way of upper body strength. I’ll handle the crates.”

Ladd raised an eyebrow at her, and then turned to appraise Sham’s vessel. “Eh, you’re probably right. I wouldn’t be too hard on him, though – you almost got to have respect for someone who regularly takes hits from Graham and for some reason or another hasn’t yet fled or _broke_.”

 _What?_ The Poet wasn’t overly familiar with all the nuances of how Sham worked, but he was fairly certain that the bodies Sham took over could still feel pain. And he and Sickle had witnessed Graham’s raw strength and fighting prowess for themselves. Was Sham _mad_? How did he _stand_ it? 

Lua and Sham-as-Shaft both moved to stand on either side of Sickle, who squeezed the Poet’s uninjured shoulder. “You’re still too quiet,” she murmured. “Try not to pass out once you’re inside. I’ll kill you if you do.”

“No…promises…” slurred the Poet. It had taken all his strength up until now to _not_ pass out. He had no idea how he hadn’t done so already.

The transition from the warm security of Sickle’s lap and arms to the waiting hands of Sham and Lua was not an easy one. Sitting upright in itself proved horrendous thanks to the gash in his side, and he had to spend a whole minute catching his breath before he was ready to attempt standing on his own two feet.

Standing thankfully proved a slightly less arduous process, since the Poet took care to put as little weight on his injured leg as possible. Still, he had to beg another moment’s rest once they’d gotten him to his feet, for the world swam uneasily around him at the slightest bit of movement. This meant, of course, that his surroundings continued to tilt and swerve all throughout the walk over to the truck – and so the Poet didn’t notice the truck’s unusual design until the three of them finally came to a stop in front of it. 

At first, he thought he was hallucinating from blood loss – but when Shaft reached out and opened one of the cab’s doors he realized that the cab really was extended. He had never seen a truck cab with four doors and two rows of seats before. Somehow he hadn’t noticed the modification when the truck had first arrived, even though he’d witnessed more than two men firing off their tommies from the cab. 

“Miss Lua, are you and Boss Ladd coming along for the ride?” asked Sham, on the Poet’s left side. Lua nodded.

Sham patted the Poet on his back sympathetically. “Sorry, looks like you’ll have to remain sitting during the drive – unless two of the others are willing to lay you out on their laps, but I wouldn’t count on it. Now, who’s sitting where is what I wanna know.”

The Poet didn’t much particularly care _where_ he sat at this point as long as he was sitting. Eventually Sham settled on helping the Poet into the passenger’s seat, while Lua took a window seat in the back row. Once Sham was sure that the Poet wasn’t about to fall over, he closed the door and left to help Sickle and Ladd with the rest of the crates.

And then – silence.

 _Real_ silence, aside from a quiet conversation between Sickle, Ladd, and Sham from somewhere outside the Poet’s window. _Blessed_ silence. No gunfire, no bone-cracking, nothing. Though Lua was still more stranger than acquaintance at this point, he found it far more comfortable than awkward, and he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the headrest. Sleep tugged at him and he did not resist it – his injuries ached, but even the pain was no longer enough to stave off the rest he craved—

“Your friend,” whispered Lua, from the back row. “She told you to stay awake.”

The Poet wet his lips. _Water, please, I need water. I need sleep. WatersleepIwanttosleephurts._ “I—” he rasped, “I—”

“She said that she would kill you if you went to sleep,” Lua continued, her tone feather-light.

The Poet managed a weak chuckle at that, only serving to aggravate the gash in his side. “She did.”

Lua hummed. “Would it bother you?” she asked, “if she killed you?”

 _Tiredsleepwaterpain Justletmerest._ It would be rude of him not to answer, if not unwise. But forming one coherent thought was already proving a struggle, let alone several of them in a row. It wasn’t a question he’d thought about, either. Not seriously, at any rate. He’d thought of dying by his own hand, by Master Huey or Master Salomé’s hand, by a stranger’s hand – but dying by the Lamia’s hand? By _Sickle’s_ hand? Certainly he’d often felt _near_ death whenever Sickle took umbrage with his poetry _(haven’tbeen.poetry.badneeddo)_ , but that was…different.

What would he do if Sickle one day _did_ try to kill him?

“I…don’t know.” Partially a dodge, but also mostly the truth. _Toodizzytoohotcoldhotsleep._ “But I _know_ …Sickle…would have…her reasons.”

“Oh?”

“She’d,” the Poet fumbled. “She wouldn’t…without a reason.”

“So it wouldn’t bother you?” prompted Lua – and the Poet roused from his stupor, opening his eyes wide.

“It wouldn’t,” he breathed. “It – I’d accept it.” He paused, and added, “The reason…wouldn’t matter.”

 _It wouldn’t_. _Wouldn’twouldn’t_. Sickle wouldn’t kill him without a reason, and that was all that mattered. He’d blindly put his trust in her reason because he trusted _Sickle_ , and that was enough.

“I see.”

Again, silence stretched between them – but this time the Poet was not content to keep it. _Inadequatenotenoughmissingmissingwhat?_ “I do not need – do not have a – a reason to die.” Need, have – why did words fail him _now_ , why couldn’t he find the right words, he couldn’t find the right words because he barely understood how he _felt_ in the first place.

“What about a reason to live?” Lua’s voice remained as tranquil as ever, while the Poet was all gasps and erraticism.

“I…” A reason to live. Did he need one? Did he _have_ one? _The Lamia_ , _Master Huey, Master Salomé, LamiaLarvaeLamia_. “I merely…exist,” he croaked. “I exist.” _Hurtshurtsohithurts._ “I exist because my Master requires it.” _Because he hasn’t recycled me yet_. “I exist for…” _The sake of others? For Master Huey? For the Lamia the Lamia the Lamia._ “I want…” 

He faltered.

“What I want,” said Lua, quietly, “more than anything in the world, is to die.”

The Poet waited _._

“For the longest time…the how and where never mattered. Death was death no matter the road taken…that’s what I thought. Until one day,” she said, “I met Ladd.”

He didn’t have to look at her to know that she was smiling.

“What I want,” Lua repeated, “is to die. I want to be killed. I want to be killed by Ladd…and Ladd alone. Before…I existed. Now I exist so that he can kill me one day. Sometimes it’s hard…having to wait for something I want more than anything in the world…but for him, I don’t mind.” Much more softly, she added, “I don’t mind existing…as much as I used to.” 

The Poet exhaled, and tried to make sense of the universe.

Christopher, perhaps, would have joked that the Poet obviously should choose to exist solely so that Sickle could someday kill him. Christopher, thankfully, was not present and therefore had no say in the conversation.

The Poet had searched for his road to happiness to no avail. Searched and searched and came to the conclusion that he could never be happy – but that didn’t matter, since he existed for Master Huey’s sake and not his own. He existed for Master Huey’s sake and obeyed him because it was the safe path. The only path. 

…He didn’t exist for Master Huey at all – he existed because he was told to.

 _Lua exists for the sake of someone else_ , the Poet mused, sagging in his seat. _And she finds it bearable_. _Existing for someone else – that’s not such a bad thought_. _Existing for Master Huey_ ….

No. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. If he was going to exist _for_ someone, he’d….

The Poet smiled.

He’d known the answer all along, hadn’t he? Ever since he look at Rail and Frank and decided that he couldn’t let himself die to avoid hurting the others. In other words, he’d decided to exist _for_ them – only he hadn’t accepted it because he’d been so focused on his own recurring existential crises regarding personal happiness and guilt and fears.

This was no revelation. It was the furthest thing from a revelation. Just…acceptance. Something akin to peace.

The Poet cleared his throat. “Madam,” he said, “I must apologize – I have been a poor conversation partner, I fear. My speech has been – clumsy.”

“Not at all,” Lua said, graciously. “Please, don’t worry. …Oh, it looks like they’ve finished.”

Had they? Finished what? Did that mean he could sleep now? 

“You still with me, Poet?”

The Poet rolled his head over to his window and found Sickle glaring at him on the other side. “Mm.”

Sickle’s gaze flicked to the backseat, where Lua sat. “Thank you,” she muttered, reluctant gratitude creasing her temple.

Ladd sidled into view, and peered at the cab’s exterior over Sickle’s shoulder. “Lessee, Shaft and beardy in the front, me ‘n Lua in the back, and Miss not-capoeira…”

He cocked his head at Sickle.

“Also in the back,” she spat. “I am _not_ riding in the hold.”

❖

In the end, Lua shifted to the middle seat while Sickle and Ladd sat on either side of her. Sham slid into the driver’s seat and gingerly closed the door after him.

“Okay, let’s get out of here,” he muttered, beads of sweat dripping down his jawline. “You can only delay the cops for so long.”

“Oh yeah, the cops!” Ladd exclaimed. “All those bullets flying and not a cop in sight. What gives?”

Sham shrugged and threw the Poet a sly wink. “I dunno for sure, but on my way here I think I passed by some sorta protest or festival ‘cause you wouldn’t believe how many people were crowding the streets. They’d parked cars right in the middle of roads and everything. I tell ya, it was complete mayhem.” 

With that, they were off.

The Poet drifted – and shuddered. _No, better not – drift too far and you won’t be able to find your way back._

Weary beyond measure, he steeled himself and _felt_. Concentrated on the wind buffeting his face through the shattered windshield, and pressed down on his bad shoulder with his thumb and nearly cried from the pain of it. Anything to stay awake like Sickle wanted – like _he_ wanted, anything to stay alive – like _he_ wanted.

Surviving meant seeing rest of the Lamia again, and for the first time in a long, long while, the Poet found that he was honestly looking forward to having a _tomorrow_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You know...this fic sort of assumes a lot of things about the Poet, especially about his past. We're told that the Poet doesn't even know when exactly his eyes were altered to induce hypnosis, but by the time "he had been old enough to understand, his eyes were already altered." 
> 
> It's stated in such a way that I feel like it trivializes the actual alterations themselves? We're told over and over again that the laboratories were horrific, and the homunculi underwent hellish experiences there, but those experiences of pain aren't actively...associated with the Poet's individual past? And I want to believe - or rather, I would expect that the Poet experienced _some_ physical distress during his time in the laboratories. They experimented/operated on his _eyes_ after all, and no matter their skill I imagine they didn't particularly care about minimizing his pain. 
> 
> So maybe those memories were a little self-indulgent on my part, but I don't think they're too out of the realm of believability. 
> 
> The Poet's internal and existential crises, however...yeah, I won't blame you if you raise a skeptical eyebrow. You know what, essentially this entire fic was likely just an excuse for me to inflict angst upon an entirely minor character I happen to be very fond of. 
> 
> Also can I just say I really enjoyed having Sickle pair off with Ladd and the Poet with Lua in this? In my mind at least both pairs (and all four of them) worked unexpectedly well with one another. Maybe not in my writing, but at least the concept of them interacting was a lot more fun than I'd initially thought. 
> 
> I wanted to refer to Sham as Shaft in this, but I went with primarily referring to him as Sham since we're in the Poet's PoV and he knows him as _Sham_ not Shaft, so... 
> 
> I think this is my first time writing Ladd and Lua, and I hope I got them marginally in character somehow. Lua especially. If only I knew them as well as harleyquinzel does. If you want expertly-written Ladd and Lua, she's the one to go to.
> 
> (Actually this is my first time writing all of them except for Sham/Shaft, so that hope extends to Poet and Sickle too).


End file.
